Perry Mason, The Woman Behind the Man: Della Street
by DNPLC
Summary: This is Lauren Jeffries' "Woman Behind the Man" profile from Metropolitan Magazine, February, 1991. It's coming in several parts as a week-long celebration! Happy Birthday Barbie Hale and Della Street! Happy Secretaries Week. Perry Mason
1. Chapter 1

Thanks everyone-I've missed you all but feel much better now!

Della's profile is interspersed with memories that the interviews trigger in Della and/or Perry's mind. Those appear under the accompanying date. Since this is exactly what I do for a living, I "interviewed" the characters as I would have if the article were real and did quite a bit of research on secretaries in the 50s and 60s. If you have any questions, please ask and please, please enjoy lovely friends!

_**Happy Birthday Barbie!**_

_**Monday, January 21st, 1991, Los Angeles**_

With trepidation, Della extracted the large manila envelope that said "Metropolitan Magazine" from the pile of mail on her desk. Just back from two weeks in Denver the postal task before her was Herculean but she had to take a moment for this, putting far more urgent mail on the back burner.

For the first time ever Della Street had agreed to a magazine profile about…_Della Street. _This ignoring of mail protocol was not ego on her part, rather it was worry.

Oh, Della had been interviewed about Perry hundreds of times, happily trilling about his wonderful qualities to any journalist who would listen. She had even posed for a couple of fashion layouts in the late 1950s and the 1960s, under the guise of the "modern business woman." But an actual profile on herself had never occurred to her. Della could not imagine what in the world she would have to contribute and when she was approached offered a quick "no thank you."

Lauren Jeffries, the Editor-in-Chief whom she had known peripherally for many years, hamstring'd her, however, going behind her back to Perry Mason whom Lauren assumed had killed the idea. On the contrary, he informed Ms. Jeffries, he had not even heard about the piece. Della Street, his admitted enormous bias aside, was the finest legal secretary of whom he had ever heard. Further, as far as he was concerned secretaries, Della Street in particular, never got their due and Perry Mason would, he said, be only too willing to help in any way that he could.

Double-teamed, Della finally, nervously agreed. It was going to require extensive interviews for secretary _and_ boss. Lauren also wanted to speak with colleagues, family and friends like Paul Jr., Gertie, Ken and even Tony Domenico, in an effort to round out the piece.

Now the magazine was in her hand and Della was anxious about how much had been revealed about their business and, if she were being truthful, her relationship with her boss, confidante and partner of 42 years.

Perry had been talking to Della for a while when he noticed that all he was getting in return, even when it wasn't appropriate, was, "Yes, Perry."

"Miss Street, will you finally marry me?" Perry said, smirking, chin resting on his fist.

"Yes, Perry."

Perry laughed. "Good. Then will you please remove your clothes and lay on the couch so we can celebrate the happy occasion? I want to make love to you right here, right now."

"Yes, P…huh?" Della's eyes shot up from opening the envelope, a deep pink blush creeping up her cheeks. "Perry!"

"Alright, young lady, what is it?"

"Well, Lauren sent a copy of the magazine…"

"That's great! Come over here..." Perry pushed his chair away from his desk, as he did whenever he expected her to perch on his lap.

Della walked slowly to Perry, lines creasing her pretty forehead.

"What is it, Della?"

"I find the note she wrote a bit… disconcerting."

"That's because we've been in this business too long. You've always been too skeptical anyway. Go ahead, read it to me."

"_Dear Della;_

_Attached is a copy of the magazine, which comes out next week, and the photographs are nothing short of stunning. But then, even in a town filled with movie stars, you always were one of the most photogenic women in Los Angeles!"_

"She sure has that right," Perry said with pride as he settled her on his lap behind his desk. "What you ever saw in me I'll never know…"

"Well, you were so easy to get along with, Dear…" Della replied with a wry smile curling her lips, making Perry choke he laughed so hard.

"_After spending so much time with you two, I see why you've guarded your privacy so closely all of these years. I hope you find that the return for a slight loss of said privacy is how wonderful a role model you make. You are a terrific spokesperson for two underrepresented generations of American women and for the proud career of secretary."_

Perry nodded, grinning widely.

"Wait for it, Dear…"

"_As for the bathroom scene…"_

"What bathroom scene? Perry bellowed.

"When you stapled your finger to the brief and I gave you… first aid…" Della blushed again.

"But didn't we…" Perry stopped, watching Della nod in the affirmative with her eyes closed. "I thought we were alone."

"Mmm…well…apparently not. Shall I…?" Della turned her hand over gracefully to indicate the letter and Perry nodded somberly.

With a sharp intake of breath she continued.

"…_I did commit a serious breach of etiquette and journalistic integrity since I should never have witnessed that. My compromise was to include the scene up to that intensely sexy kiss and its…well… aftermath. If you are tempted to think harshly of me, just consider what that __**whole**__ scene would have done for our circulation, not to mention what it did do for mine! (Until I discreetly went back out to visit with Gertie, to whom I mentioned that you actually were there but were in…conference, so to speak.)"_

"Gertrude," sighed Perry as Della slumped into his shoulder somewhat, though not entirely, relieved.

"_Your Mr. Mason is as proud of you as you have always seemed of him and reveled in the opportunity to say so, I think. I hope that you both enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it—_

_Fondly, L J"_

Della put her head against Perry's and gave him a kiss on the cheek as he patted her thigh.

"You could never, ever get enough credit for all that you've done over the decades. You've been an incredible partner, Della, in every possible way."

Della just shook her curls, watching her lap, "You…"

"Now, it would give me the greatest pleasure to read this to you. May I?" he whispered.

"What could be nicer?" Della smiled at her attorney and braced herself against his broad chest.

_**BHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBH BHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHBHB HBHBHBHBHBH**_

_**METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE, February, 1991...**__**WOMAN BEHIND THE MAN: DELLA STREET, LOS ANGELES**_

This is the last, and perhaps the most important, in _Metropolitan's_, "_Woman Behind the Man_" series because it is about a career that has been the backbone of every industry in this country. And yet, the word "secretary" has gotten an old-fashioned, even derogatory, reputation over the last decade.

My job as Editor-in-Chief of "_Metro_" is to oversee the tone, look and content of the magazine, a very full-time job, not write for it. So, for five years my literary pursuits have extended no further than penning my monthly "Letters to the Editor" column.

Then the most famous secretary ever, Della Street the confidential, legal secretary to legendary defense attorney Perry Mason, _finally_ agreed to be profiled for this series!

Well, I can tell you that I trampled over several eager beavers on my staff to nab this story! This is _my _contemporary; a woman whose career I have watched with admiration for more than 25 years. When I saw Ms. Street the first time, I was living in Los Angeles clawing my way up in a movie industry totally disinterested in accommodating women as anything other than starlets and script girls.

Della Street and her eminent attorney, by then legendary for their epic success, made a devastating pair around L. A. attending premieres, dancing in nightclubs and working tirelessly on the benefit circuit—between them they have quietly raised several million dollars for various legal aid and children' charities—all after long days in court.

Tall, dark and handsome Mr. Mason always had a phalanx of ladies following him, their attention misdirected to his lack of wedding ring instead of the beautiful woman _**always**_ on his arm. But that coterie paled next to the attention Miss Street got from every man in whatever room she entered. Even now it is hard to describe her beauty, which is at once supremely elegant and thoroughly natural. Tall and lithe with a sweet, sassy smile, unerring grace and an open friendly manner she was irresistible; the woman women wanted for a best friend and the woman men just wanted.

Mr. Mason, huge, azure eyes shimmering with pride says now, "When we danced I used to have to take her off to a corner or out onto a terrace just so other gentlemen wouldn't cut in all night; not that that stopped them. In fact it still doesn't stop them."

Sitting comfortably next to him Miss Street rolls her eyes. "We have a pact, always have. We let no one cut in, ever."

Watching the two of them as they laugh over this now, those unanswered and almost ancient questions about their relationship linger.

The first time I met Ms. Street, I am shocked to learn, she was already 42 years old, although she barely looked 30. This was 1964, the spring gala for The Los Angeles Children's Hospital Fund for which she and Mr. Mason were co-chairs.

Known for a dizzying array of ball gowns from Dior and Balciaga to Balmain, Givenchy, and Jacques Fath, she wore next season's Madame Grés couture that night. Made of white, silk jersey, the simple Grecian column had billowing folds, like some magnificent toga, across her breasts. With her hair up, drop diamond earrings, a single solid strand of diamonds around her neck and a small white, satin purse, the word goddess would not have been an overstatement.

That evening the flashbulbs never stopped around her. I can still remember the way Perry Mason stepped to the side, smiling beatifically watching as Miss Street, embarrassed by the attention, kept trying to move closer to him.

Newspapers were always filled with their pictures, however, and just as often Della Street was pictured in crisp business attire, rushing into or out of court, laden with briefcases and folders, or being hauled into police headquarters because she was involved in one of Mr. Mason's well known stunts. Young ladies, if you want a lesson in the art of dressing for the office to maximize both respect and your female attributes, I suggest looking up some back issues of the Los Angeles Times; specifically Miss Della Street.

When we were introduced she was warm and open, smiling kindly to everyone in the group. Seeing I was a bit out of my depth she focused on me asking me what I did and what I wanted to do in the future. Listening intently she offered advice then introduced me to the courtly Mr. Mason. By the time he lured her to the dance floor, I knew exactly, at 26 whom I wanted to be when grew up.

When we began this series, which was meant with respect and to focus on women of an earlier generation who don't always get the credit they deserve, we took heat from younger generations who believed that "woman behind the man" was somehow pejorative.

Hopefully, after profiling these incredible women you can see that they were just as relevant in their time as you are in yours—maybe even more so!—and that what they did "then" ultimately made possible what you do today: stand not behind men, but beside them.

Or as the eloquent Mr. Mason joked one recent afternoon, "Della Street hasn't just been standing behind me the last 42 years; she's been holding me up!"

-Lauren Jeffries, Editor In Chief, _Metroplolitan_


	2. Chapter 2

**EPIC COMPUTER FAIL EVERYONE...Back online first time in almost a week. SO sorry for delay and will get to all PM's tonight! MISSED YOU ALL!**

**Della Street: The Woman Behind Perry Mason Metropolitan Magazine, Page 142**

_Since 1943 Della Street has been a secretary; most of that time the confidential, legal, secretary of the great Perry Mason. So, what's it like meeting more murderers than any other woman in the country; and to be the most famous secretary ever, working for the most famous attorney? _

_Well, if you are Della Street, it's just another day at the office._

_MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

Della Street opens the door to Perry Mason Attorney-at-Law at 7:00AM to let in her guests, a journalist and photographer. Bright and cheerful, she extends her arm in a sweeping gesture bidding her guests enter. After making some noises about being nervous at the prospect of so much attention, the phone rings and she dashes, literally, to her desk as it's too early for the receptionist.

"Oh," she laughs, "It never stops around here. We still have to use an old-fashioned service because we get calls in the middle of the night…_often_."

Della Street rolls her eyes, making detailed notes of the conversation while arranging for a messenger pick up, checking on delivery of a greatly anticipated box of pastries from a certain recherché bakery, answering the phone two more times, pulling files to reel off some numbers and, oh yes, offering her guests a chair.

Street's movements are brisk, efficient and always graceful; from the way she uses her hands to the way she stands and moves, the result of her days modeling to pay for school. This is the first of several hundred times over the next two weeks her guests will watch with awe, and a bit of nausea, she juggles several tasks simultaneously without seeming to notice; as if this frenetic pace is the most natural thing in the world.

Della Street is the quintessential executive assistant, or what we used to call in the old days, secretary. In Ms. Street's case a _confidential_, legal secretary, which as any good lawyer will tell you is essential to a successful practice. In Miss Street's case her duties routinely cross over into other areas, office manager, legal assistant, "secretary of the treasury" as Mason has dubbed her and, as they used to say in Bogie's day, _shamus_.

According to Perry Mason, America's foremost defense attorney, its most successful shamus and Miss Street's boss, "If I hadn't found Della Street my career, my _life_, would have been much different."

Although technically Miss Street "found" him, that brief allusion to the oft-speculated nature of their personal relationship is a rare one.

This morning Della Street is stunning in a bright orange silk, two-piece suit with a soft no-lapel blazer, knee-length pencil skirt, a pale cantaloupe-colored silk tank and a few simple pieces of jewelry. Very few women have the legs, the coloring and the personal style to carry this off but on Della Street it is magic.

As she arrived at 6:30 and will be here long past 9 tonight, the spectacularly high heels are an impressive addition.

"I've always worn these and I always will. Of course at home I usually wear sandals—have about 20 pair. What does that say?" she asks with a deep, lustrous laugh.

Over the next two weeks that laugh will become an old friend, well-worn, warm as sable, luxurious in its frequency, and generous in its proportions. When it tumbles out of her, at the slightest provocation, her boss may join in, often without even lifting his head, or he may simply smile softly, some might even say adoringly, at his secretary of many decades.

_MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

"I take great pride in my coffee," says Della Street carrying in a tray of the best scented java in California. "People get worked up over the strangest things."

Street is referring to the effrontery many assistants—female _and_ male— feel at having to purchase or, Heaven forbid, make coffee for their boss. Not the old-school Street who just shrugs and laughs, while removing the sinful pastries she has ordered from their box and arranging them on a plate.

"I hate to tell you, but if you're the secretary it's your job to make the coffee—whether you're a fella' or a gal."

One spectacular-looking pastry in particular is left behind in the box, which she closes and places on the side console, absent-mindedly licking a perfectly manicured finger. That is as far as she will indulge this morning. When it is suggested that Mr. Mason would never deign to make a pot of coffee, Miss Street shoots a sly grin.

"Mr. Mason makes a fine cup of coffee," she says offering cream and sugar. "In fact, he's quite the gourmet cook, loves being in the kitchen."

In the center of the round table she places a copper thermal coffee pot with matching mugs that looks like a time machine portal to a 1960s diner.

"Mmm hmm. I bought that in…" she taps her foot, hand on hip thinking, "Oh, '50 or '51. Still works better than anything else. I was so happy to see it again when it came from storage that I use it all the time despite the fact that we have much newer, much nicer services."

Street has been organizing an epic renovation and move back into the office Perry Mason took when he opened his practice in 1947. Then it was the Brent Building, later the Bank of California Building, and was the sleekest, tallest structure around, its freshness and innovation drawing businesses and people from all over.

Now, there are trendier parts of Los Angeles to be sure.

"They would find him if he was practicing out of a cave in New Guinea," laughs Street. "And we wanted to come back _home_."

Twirling around once, her hand outstretched again, she leans on that last word hard. For Della Street roots are important. Work has made theirs a peripatetic existence keeping them on the move for much of their lives, the more traditional trappings of everyday life just out of reach.

"Well, it has helped to so adaptable all of these years," she laughs heartily.

Here, back at the corner of 6th Street and Flower, they have an entire floor now and it is nothing short of posh. Since her guest only saw the old office once decades ago, Miss Street explains how the layout of the new office differs from its previous incarnation. Sprawling rooms are furnished exclusively in original, mid-century modern furniture with the world's most famous modern and post-modern artists lining the walls.

"Our taste in art differs a bit," Mason will say later. "But it was a passion for both of us before we met. Della is particularly partial to, and good with, sculpture. I like paintings; especially hers by the way. You should try and get her to show you something—and let me know how you make out with that."

So far they have built one of the most extensive private law libraries in southern California which Mason, a law professor himself, encourages select students from local law schools to use.

Mason's office is probably five times the size of the old one with one major alteration. Miss Street's office used to be right outside Mason's door with the outer office beyond that. Now they share this huge space, her desk placed directly across the room from his.

"We're getting old," she laughs. "It's just easier that way."

"Our work usually required Della work here at my desk anyway, just by virtue of the tasks at hand," Masons says later over coffee. "And I like to look at her pretty face."

Although completely different, of course, the office still manages to retain the feeling of their old office.

"Thank you, that was the idea," she smiles knowingly and looks up through her lashes.

Paul Drake, Jr., the son of Perry Mason's lead investigator the late Paul Drake, and Mr. Mason and Miss Street's God-son has moved his office down here from his father's space upstairs.

"Well," he says swiping a pastry and Miss Street's coffee on his way back to his office, "I work mostly for Perry anyway and when they're not here it is better that I'm nearby. I'll keep dad's offices for old time sake though."

Because of Mason' duties in the classroom in Denver, Colorado they are only in their Los Angeles office part-time, the situation to which Drake is referring. Since it remains their main office it's fully staffed with, Gertie Lade, Mr. Mason's receptionist since 1947, and a small fleet of legal assistants and young lawyers.

Della Street returns from the phone just in time to see her coffee disappearing. Handsome, blonde, curly-headed, Paul Drake, Jr. has been no less than a son to her since he was 8 years-old and was left with his father. One senses he can get away with just about anything as he gives her a big, toothy smile and backs out the door.

"Oh that boy," she sighs indulgently, a very maternal note in her voice, "Both he and his dad…always my coffee… or my lunch… usually both."

Della Street excuses herself to finish preparing some research before her boss gets in, as well as to complete the paperwork for several subpoenas so an assistant can run down and file them this morning as soon as the courthouse opens.

At 8, Perry Mason's frame fills the doorway. Omnipresent cane in one hand, two thick briefcases in the other, he already seems stressed. This huge man is the center of a swirling vortex equal parts intense energy, searing intellect, palpable power, and, frankly as distinguished as he is, an earthy, raw sexuality.

Those piercing eyes and dark scowl haven't aged at all and, to be generous, they can be daunting. Always formidable, the younger Perry Mason never-the-less had a debonair, lightness about him, a jocularity that this version does not seem to possess.

"Della!" he bellows once in their office, despite the fact she is not 10 feet from him.

"Hi-ee…" she hums, the word drawn out with her smile as she looks up at her boss.

Whether it is the greeting or the look she gives him, Perry Mason is instantly mortal-size with a child-like smile, and laughing eyes; an incredible metamorphosis. Setting down his briefcases he walks to her desk and leans down.

"Where the devil did you go this…"

Before he can complete his sentence Miss Street jumps up and turns him around reminding him that they will be having visitors on and off for the next two weeks.

Easily the most chivalrous man left in the country, he strides quickly across the room arthritic knee not-with-standing, welcoming his guests warmly including a swoon-worthy kiss on the hand. Taking us into his impressive law library, he delivers a single look and students scattered around the room working disappear.

"I am going to enjoy bragging about Miss Street," those famous blue eyes dance. "She is the backbone of our practice and never gets the credit she deserves. I can't call her my secretary anymore she does so much more. Sometimes I introduce her as my colleague, sometimes the head of our office, and even the head of the firm. That last one, that's probably the one that comes closest to the truth."

Holding a chair and then sliding into one himself he has immense grace for a mountain. To be clear, it's not Perry Mason's weight that makes him appear large; it is the man himself. There are highly paid star linebackers on the NFL with shoulders narrower than these. His polished, Italian leather shoes are big as gun boats, his head the very definition of leonine and his hand, when he gently shakes yours, engulfs it.

When he is in his Los Angeles office Mason prefers suits—tailored for him on Saville Row—or at least a sport coat and tie. Today he is in charcoal cashmere, a white shirt with thin, baby blue stripes and a silver- sapphire tie turning his eyes into shooting stars. This tie has become a favorite and was, as are all of his ties he says, purchased by Miss Street.

With his silver hair, crisp salt and pepper beard, and dramatic features, the matinee idol looks of his youth have softened to create a most handsome man. They are, in fact, a most handsome "couple."

In Denver, according to Miss Street, they tend to be a bit more relaxed, even "outdoorsy." Mason dons what she laughingly calls his "country squire hunting oeuvre," plaid shirts, herringbone blazers and khaki trousers but almost always with a tie. Della Street can even be found wearing… _pants_, says Mason in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Looks great in 'em…Only took her 40 years but whatever you do don't call them pants," he whispers seriously.

When Perry Mason, who charges upwards of $700 an hour for his advice, gives offers it freely; take it.

"Pants!" she yelps in a strangled smoker's voice. "Is that what he told you? Well, I may wear _slacks_ on occasion because it's freezing out there and I've always worn capris on warm weekends. I even wear jeans when we go fishing, but no lady wears 'pants.'"

Della Street fishes?

"I'm damn good, too!"

Perry Mason is trying to hide his smile but is having little success and nods in agreement at her boast.

_MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

Without the slightest hint of condescension, Mason starts right in on the virtues of a talented secretary, saying they are as important as a great doctor, teacher, writer or, yes, lawyer. The best legal secretaries, he believes, can make or break a practice.

"Della is the best I have ever seen. You cannot imagine how much she can do in a day both in number and variety of tasks. When I hired her, or should I say when she hired me," he laughs deeply, "I knew instantly that she would change the entire practice I guess because by the time I hired her she already I _had_."

Della Street has joined the discussion, bringing with her a cup of coffee and, on a plate with a fork, the secreted away pastry, which she sets down in front of Mr. Mason who thanks her. Not surprisingly, even their meeting was atypical, some might even say adorable and decades later both paint an unflattering picture of the office on that spring morning in May, 1949.

"Mayhem," smirks Miss Street. "I was surprised knowing his reputation but it added up quickly. Perry had kept on a lousy secretary, because he is terribly, _terribly_ loyal. Then, because most people are _not_ terribly loyal, she up and quit without notice right at the moment his practice exploded.

You see, he won three cases in quick succession that _no one else_ could have won; _no one else_!" says Della excitedly warming to her topic. "After that everyone wanted him, film stars, captains of industry, Senators, Governors, you name it. You have never heard a phone ring off the hook like that."

"Della this is about you," admonishes Mason a hand on her forearm. "Mayhem is as good a word as any, though. It was so bad around there that I had no idea who my appointments were. When she walked in I started yelling at her for being late…I thought she was the temp!"

Della Street giggles, rocking into the massive shoulder, Perry Mason knocking back into her until they are both hysterical.

"So I went along with it, pitching in…what better way to get hired? I was there for an _interview_, though," she says her voice taking a dip as she purses her lips, which she does often and in the most fetching way. "And, for the record, I was _early_."

"You were, young lady. You were," he agrees.

"You should have seen his face when he found out who I was late that night; I'll never forget that look," Street's warm, hazel eyes search the past, wistfully.

"You should have seen it when I walked out of my office after she had been there for oh…maybe four hours. She had _transformed_ the place," Perry Mason's voice takes on the tone of a child who has just witnessed his first magic trick.

"Suddenly I had interns and typists who were actually typing! She rearranged the furniture so that it made sense. Poor Gertrude was finally answering the phone properly and not cutting me off every other call. Everyone else was doing their job the right way and caught me up on all of the research I needed for several briefs…"

"Well, Dear…" Della tips her head, cheeks pink.

"You had by that night," Perry Mason turns to her and she finally concedes with a nod. "With her grace and impeccable manners Della improves people's performance without a word of criticism and since people just naturally love her they _want_ to improve to please her. I know I do.

From an efficiency and organization perspective she is a genius; not at all militant and more effective for it. Ken Malansky, a young lawyer who works with us in Denver, tries to '_improve'_ Della's methods every now and then…"

Della Street makes a noise of utter disdain.

"Now, now…he's young and always admits defeat," Mason nudges his secretary until he gets a little grin then continues. "But it's her _research…_that's what still amazes me. She can find out almost anything in no time, usually anticipating what I'm going to need before I even know. She has broken many a case."

Della Street leans back and to the side considering her boss, "I want a raise!"

They both start laughing again, deep, rumbling laughs.

"She does have one small issue, shall we say?" Mason says looking at Street, the suspense building.

Street just shakes her head, lips pursed once again.

"Office supplies; it's a sickness. Give the girl her choice between a jewelry store and a stationery store…"

"Paperclips are a girl's best friend," laughs Street.

Between filing briefs, drafting any number of legal documents and filling, Street estimates, thousands of pads with notes over the years, Mason, and his detective Paul Drake quickly learned that she had hidden talents. Della Street was as good in the trenches as they were.

"The act needed a girl," states Miss Street. "There were plenty of schemes for which only a girl would do and Perry was never shy about taking me with him. I loved it; even when it was something that made me a nervous wreck, which was pretty often. I _hated_ it when Perry left me behind at the office."

Della Street's pouting a bit now, nose crinkled in the direction of her boss.

"Shy? I wanted you along, as often as the office could spare you and… well… as long as it wasn't going to be too dangerous," Perry says to her.

"Yeah, yeah, the truth comes out," she nods.

"You did plenty of dangerous things," he says turning to her. "I think about it now and I don't know what I was thinking then…don't know what I'm thinking now…except you always were one handy girl to have around.

She sees things that I don't see. _Girlie_ things," he whispers in mock disdain, prompting a playfully gentle elbow to his side. "I'm kidding, of course. When I didn't bring her along Paul always asked, 'We leaving Beautiful home?'"

Della Street and Perry Mason lean against one another and Street has tears in her eyes.

"He used to say she ran with the boys just like one of them but she always looked and acted like a lady," says Paul Drake, Jr. who has snuck in and is standing behind Street now, hands on her shoulders.

Della reaches up, taking the younger Drake's hand in hers, pressing it to her cheek. "My boys…"

At least half of Mason's success is attributed to his brilliant detective work and despite her complaints Della Street admits she was almost always at his side.

"Della climbed down fire escapes, down into and up out of boats, drove our 'get away' cars, road through the dessert in the back of Jeeps, ran around crime scenes, all in those stilts she wears. And she takes perfect notes at 2 in the morning over a dead body," states Mason proudly.

Della Street says that both her favorite and least favorite part was posing as other people.

"Let's see, I was the wife of an amnesiac I had to smother with kisses," Della puts her hand on her chest, still aghast at the thought, "Other people's secretaries that was pretty common because it got us in places; a model; women with husband troubles; blondes…Perry slapped a blonde wig on me every chance he got!"

Della Street has a hand on her hip and is bent over laughing now.

When questioned about the smile he's hiding behind his clasped hands, Mr. Mason says, "I admit nothing."

Street continues, "I even posed as Mr. Mason's wife, although I believe we were the Streets."

"Yes, and you had to fake a headache—just my luck," Mason guffaws at the shocked expression on his secretary's face.

"She took the stand a few times, too," he says trying to redeem himself, "And boy was she tough!"

"Oh, I ended up on that damned stand being grilled by Hamilton Burger—and other D.A.'s—more times than I care to mention," she says looking askance at her boss.

"You used to get so mad at Hamilton…" Mason grins.

"Oh they always thought they had him but they never did!" Della's eyes are blazing now, making Mason laugh.

"Hamilton always called you my secret weapon," Mason pauses, "And he was absolutely right; smart man, Hamilton Burger. We miss him."

"I told Perry, when he _finally_ got around to interviewing me that first night, that I wanted to do _more,_" she laughs at Mason who has his head down and may be sporting a slight blush.

"Little did she know…"

Street lets out a slightly sardonic, particularly sexy laugh.

"I had been bored to death in my other jobs—a bunch of old men who started drinking cocktails at their desk at 11 in the morning and were chasing you around the desk, or worse, by 5PM."

Della Street's face has taken on a darkness that is uncharacteristic. Stories about the vulnerability of young women in the business world in those days are ubiquitous. But Della Street experienced more than the normal slap and tickle.

"Oh, it was bad," says Miss Street who hasn't looked up, yet. "And there was no recourse. It was always your fault just by virtue of the fact that you were a young woman working and you should have been home with babies; even if you had to work, and believe me, I have always had to work."

Even now, more than forty years later, Miss Street is clearly as uncomfortable as if it happened yesterday.

"When Della came to me she had just left a firm where one the of the partners came very close to… forcibly having his way with her one night," Mason tries to put it as gently as possible but rape is rape no matter how it's phrased.

"You were very much at the mercy of your boss at the time. It didn't matter how much of a lady _you_ were," Della says quietly taking the hand that Mason offers. "And you never talked of these things, not even your closest girlfriends."

"In 1949 women just endured with a smile," there is anger in Mason's voice.

According to Street, secretaries were constantly in a jam, something to which she was inordinately sensitive she says, and which formed the basis for many of the choices she made in her life; though she is taciturn when it comes to identifying those choices.

"We met hundreds of girls over the years who were involved in our cases in one way or another," says Street who has given this a great deal of thought. "Either they were protecting a boss, or they were a witness and were terrified, or they were privy to their bosses' secrets."

"Secretaries were often the first to be suspect. There is something about a woman devoted to a man, to the extent a good secretary _must be,_ that seems somehow untoward to people; at least it did then," says Mason, scowling as if he hadn't considered this topic prior.

"The general attitude was that she was on the hunt for her boss, just working until she snagged her meal ticket. But after school, where do you meet people? At work, of course, and if you're both single what's wrong with it?" Della Street waves her hand. "But very few secretaries actually end up marrying their bosses."

Della Street pauses but only for a moment.

"And when there's a wife involved, and you are just a secretary and sometimes friend, watch out. Wives, I can tell you, never think much of you and that is difficult."

There is steel in Street's voice that is rare, prompting Mason to take her elbow.

"But however it happened, coming to work for Perry was the best thing that ever happened to me," she grins finally. "It all worked out as it was supposed to; it always does."

Is Miss Street's glass is half full again?

Della Street smiles widely, her eyes cast in the direction of her boss, "No, it's much more than half full, I assure you. We have had, and continue to have, an awful lot of fun."

"The world," states Mason in his emphatic courtroom tone, "Does not need yet another attorney, good or bad. It could, however, use 10,000 more Della Streets."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Los Angeles, San Francisco, September, 21**__**st**__**, 1984**_

It should have been him.

Perry Mason sat at his desk, the Los Angeles Times spread out across his desk, feeling a mixture of anger, jealousy and hurt and the worst part of it was that he had no right to any of those feelings. He was the one who suggested they see other people after he had been in San Francisco for several years. In truth he had been trying to keep her away from him since the shooting that nearly took her life when she shielded him. That lunatic most assuredly killed Paul and was still on the loose.

He couldn't say that, of course.

While it was a shock, it was no less true: Perry Mason had made one Hell of a mess of their lives. Even more unusual for him, he had no solution. Now here she was plastered across the front of the "Living" section in a huge color photo attending one of "their" charity events. There were a few smaller black white photos of her scattered throughout the rest of the piece, all on the arm of her "new" boss, Arthur Gordon. Would anyone, would _everyone_, wonder where he was?

He could not have been unhappier.

Although she was there as a Gordon Industries sponsor, as was often required of her, she sure wasn't dressed like she usually dressed for his events. Normally she wore dark colors with high necks and/or evening jackets. This, according to the paper, was Ralph Lauren couture Perry Mason read feeling like a jealous society matron. The form-fitting, pale pink sequined gown featured a _**very deep**_ "V" neck that left little to the imagination, and the bottom of which came perilously close to meeting the top of her signature leg slit or so it seemed to her now extremely jealous partner of many years.

He recognized none of the jewelry.

Just then his phone rang, the secretary he shared with several other justices sounding harassed and cowed on the other end of the line. When she told him who was on hold for him, he understood instantly and instructed her to put the lady through. Of course he had been hoping for Della Street but he knew that she would have called on his private line.

He fortified himself for the conversation.

"Mr. Mason?"

"Mrs. Gordon."

"I imagine a man like you keeps up with the L.A. Times."

Perry sighed. He did not appreciate where this was headed.

"I do, Mrs. Gordon."

"May I ask about the status of your relationship with that whore who works for my husband? Frankly, I thought that she was _your_ mistress!"

"I know no one of that description, Mrs. Gordon, and I recommend a civil tongue. Additionally, she is not my mistress as I have never been married."

"I have no other words for a woman who breaks up a marriage."

"Mrs. Gordon, it is quite common knowledge that your marriage was broken long before Mr. Gordon hired my… hired Della."

"Please. You may not want to hear this but she has been after my husband for years and I happen to know that they stayed at the Ritz Carlton last night; two rooms of course but then I'm sure _you_ know how much _that_ means."

"I will brook no talk like that about Della."

"Chivalrous even when she flaunts her relationship in the newspaper like that? Well, keep your lover away from my husband."

"For the record, Madam?"

"Yes?"

"And, please, take this to heart because I will not hesitate for a moment to sue you for slander on Della's behalf," Perry Mason offered for the benefit of the attorney or recording device that he expected was employed for their conversation. "Miss Della Street would never, ever, _**under any circumstance**_, keep company with a married man; even a clearly unhappily married man such as your husband."

The phone slammed down.

Perry set the receiver gently in the cradle, hoping that his erratic behavior over the decades hadn't altered the sweet nature of Della Street so much that he was wrong about what he had just said. Knowing his girl as he did, he considered it just short of impossible but that tiny crack was wide enough for one of their greatest enemies; Perry Mason's jealousy.

_**DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDS DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDDSDSDS**_

Della slammed the phone on the cradle, shaking with anger. Once again she had been on the receiving end of one of Paula Gordon's vitriolic rants. Sitting in her chair listening to the threats, the vicious, vulgar names, and the insinuations, Della never moved and never spoke.

This was the worst one, yet, and Della wasn't sure how many more of these scenes she could take. How many more did she _have _to take? Arthur had apologized many times but he didn't seem able to rein his wife in; just move her around to different houses and apartments—and they all had phones.

Lately Gordon seemed to trust fewer and fewer people, which left increasing responsibility on the slim if sturdy shoulders of Della Street. Now, in addition to her numerous other duties she found herself on the brink of taking over the Gordon Family Foundation from Paula after her terrible mismanagement—it was this that put the horns on the Devil for good.

Now Paula Gordon had gone so far as to threaten to name her in divorce proceedings. After last night, she said she had the proof she needed. And she did, indeed, have _something_ on Della; oh, not what she thought she had, perhaps. But there was certainly enough available to be embarrassing if the chamber maid could be bribed and while for most people that would sound paranoid, after many decades working for Perry she knew better.

Last evening was a misstep on her part, though, no question.

In her loneliness for Perry, for their life together, she had adorned herself the way she would have if she had been on _his_ arm. Maybe she was just using herself as bait to draw her reluctant lover from his lair or perhaps she just wanted to have fun for a change. But the joie de vivre she displayed last evening had caused trouble and left her feeling even emptier.

Then there was Arthur's suggestion the Gordon executives stay overnight at the Ritz Carlton where the benefit was being held. Della knew she should have booked a car service, exorbitant as the one-hour ride back to L.A. would have been, to take her back that night. She should have at least dissuaded him from walking her to the door of her hotel room because when he held out his hand she could do little else but give him the key to open her door. That's what their generation did.

Arthur walked in the room _ahead _of her and Della knew she was in trouble. She never dreamed, however, that he would be as gentle kissing her, as he was savage forcing her back against the wall. Not stopping him directly gave him hope first, then license to let his hands wander freely along her recently neglected figure.

For a moment it hadn't mattered that they weren't _his _lips. Suddenly, it mattered so much that she felt her heart might break on the spot under that alien touch. A middle-aged woman she had kissed, and been kissed by, many men. But she was touched only by Perry Mason, by the enormous yet ethereal hands with their slender, knowing fingers that remained keen in the path to her pleasure.

With that memory Della smoothly, definitively, moved him away from her body.

"I don't want this," she had said, turning her head.

Arthur, placing one hand on the wall next to her, put the other in his pocket for safe keeping, "I never thought you did, Della Street. But you are the loveliest woman I've ever known—there's no one else like you in the world. Promise me you won't quit because of this."

Astonished at the pragmatism even in defeat of his attempted conquest, Della nodded once. Satisfied, he patted her on the arm and left without meeting her eyes again. With her back still against the wall, purse pressed to her chest, tears of longing began to burn.

"Ma'am?"

Della launched into the air.

"I'm sorry. I'm the turn down service. Can I get you anything else before I _leave_."

"No thank you…" Della read her name badge, "Missy."

Della went from the minibar, where she grabbed the three tiny bottles of Maker's Mark and a glass, to the bedroom where she placed a call while systematically cracking open each bottle.

"Please call me, Perry," she had said into his machine the final time, "No matter how late it is."

But her call was never answered, her messages never returned.

_**DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDS DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDDSDSDS**_

Della Street was so relieved to hear his voice on the other end of the phone the next morning that she nearly started to cry right at her desk; and she thought she was long past that.

"Oh, my love…" she sighed.

Paula Gordon had obviously been making good use of the fiber optic network of greater California this morning. Della Street sounded awful but unfortunately for both of them Perry Mason was not feeling generous.

"I tried to call you last night," she said with a sharp intake of breath.

For a moment, Perry Mason stumbled but then pressed on.

"I had an event last night, too. It was very, very late when I got home."

Della decided not say what she was thinking, which was that it was probably very early this morning. He was, after all, a man and he had made his position clear. When she first heard his voice her elation left her deaf to its distance, as if it belonged to man she hadn't known, hadn't loved and been loved by for 35 years. Damn newspaper columns.

"Della, I just got a call from Paula Gordon."

"No!" Della was incredulous at the thought that this woman would invade her life like that.

"Yes."

"What did she want, Perry?"

"She made numerous accusations about you and Arthur and…a hotel room…"

He sounded angry; the irony was almost too much to bear.

"I called you many times, Perry. I begged you to call me, no matter what time."

Perry realized that he was doing what witnesses often did, accusing others of what they had actually done to throw off suspicion, which was stupid since he hadn't _really_ done anything…much. He should have been apologizing but he couldn't get past that pink dress and the hotel room.

"She ended, more or less, by suggesting you be kept on a short leash."

Della's blood ran cold.

"I beg your pardon."

"Well, that was her point if not her exact…"

Della cut him off, her deep voice angrier than he had ever heard it, "How dare you?"

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"How dare you speak like that to me, Perry Mason? Ever. For any reason."

"Della…"

Della slammed down the phone, yanked her blazer off the back of her chair, grabbed her bag and left, brushing past Arthur Gordon who, calculating the barrage of attacks she must have endured this morning, wisely did not try and stop her.

_**DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDS DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDDSDSDS**_

Rash, stupid, jealous, fool, thought Perry Mason; just because she looked so beautiful and he wasn't with her to enjoy it. And whose fault was that?

Canceling his afternoon, he booked himself on the LA shuttle then packed his briefcase; anything else he might need would be at their home… her home…their home.

When he unlocked the door around 5PM she was nowhere to be found, although he knew from her assistant that she left shortly after arriving that morning and never came back. Riffling through the fridge and freezer he was able to cobble together a fairly nice dinner for them and then essentially just wandered around, worried, until she finally came home well after 9PM.

Perry heard her car out front, and met her with a martini, which he traded for her garment bag, train case, overnight bag and briefcase. Throwing her keys on the hall table she gave a cursory glance at the mail, which Perry had placed for her on the intricately etched, silver tray from her grandmother's house. Shoving aside the clump of bills she took the note from a high school chum and slipped it into her blazer pocket.

"Breaking and entering?" she finally said.

"I thought it was my home, too…" Perry stated, trailing her into the living room.

"Only when it suits _you_, but that's my job isn't it, still, after all of these years? Waiting around for you, until _I suit you_," Della looked him in the eye as she sipped but he couldn't meet her gaze.

"Then I get to deal with your hurt feelings when you feel you've been wronged," Della's voice was harsh with pain.

"Funny thing is, Perry, you never have been wronged; never, not even once. Have you?"

"No," Perry shook his head, inclined forward to rest his hands on the counter and the back of a chair.

Della held out the empty martini glass and Perry re-filled it. Flipping on the back lights and opening the French Doors Della went out to look at her flowers. For more than 15 minutes she drank her martini and circled each bed, occasionally bending to pull a weed.

Perry sat at the little table for two, chin in hand, watching her. At one point Della's perfect, heart-shaped mouth plucked the olive languidly off its pick, giving Perry a warm rush. When she came in she extended the empty martini glass again and reluctantly he replenished her glass and her olive.

"Dinner's ready whenever you wish, my darling."

Perry was hoping to get some food into her but Della took her train case and her martini and went upstairs, leaving Perry sitting at the table without a word.

After eating a quick, unsatisfactory dinner he went into the kitchen to clean up. Still hoping he could get her to eat, he layered some cold chicken breast he had sliced on buttered wheat bread and wrapped the modest sandwich in a paper napkin. After pouring a small glass of milk, he grabbed a bottle of water and headed upstairs.

Della was sitting in bed looking gorgeous in the short-sleeved top to her aqua, satin pajamas. Legs drawn up to her side, a finger curled over her lip, arm across her waist she was deep in thought. A few damp ringlets framed her cheeks and she sweetly wore remnants of the day's make-up around her eyes, which had taken on the color of her pajamas.

Empty and upside down on her nightstand, the martini glass made for an odd little sculpture on her nightstand.

"Dead soldier?"

"Afraid I'd knock it to the floor."

Perry sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her calf.

"I'm sorry, Della. Seeing you in the paper on another man's arm so incredibly beautiful in that pink dress made me very angry…" Perry locked eyes with her before he continued. "You know that you should not have worn that dress with anyone but me, especially since it bordered on the indecent."

His hand wandered up to her thigh and although she couldn't stop looking at that hand, she nudged it away with her knee.

"So, I brought this on myself…"

"I did not say that, young lady. I was just hurt and jealous…" His voice dropped even lower. "You were having such a good time at _our _event and then the call, the hotel room; jealous, very, very jealous."

Perry stood and jammed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumping, his belly sticking out. Della hated not being able to stay mad when he had behaved badly. But there he was sweet, a little helpless, aged, in pain, uncomfortable with himself, his appearance and his physical changes. And, as in love as he was and she knew that he was, he never could figure out what to do about it. The prodigious intricacies of the legal system were Perry Mason's A, B, C's but Della knew that to him, relationships were an indecipherable language of indeterminate origins.

"I'm sorry. Della Street… you _belong_ to me. You always have and you always will."

Della kept her arm across her chest and drew her hand thoughtfully under her chin.

"Yes," Della started seriously and quietly. "Yes I do and we both know that if I had my way we would never spend a night apart. We would be celebrating 35 years of marriage and spending Christmases with our grandchildren," Della's voice broke.

Perry felt as if he had been hit by a truck hearing those words from her; words she had probably been thinking every day of her life for decades but had never once said to him.

"All I've ever known is that I love you..." he said quietly.

Della's heart went out to him, he looked so bewildered. "Why are the hard things so easy for us; and the easy things so hard?"

Perry looked at her, stumped. "Huh," he gave himself a derisive laugh, "I don't know."

Della just shook her head slowly, finger curled over her lip once again.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine; just fine. I always am."

She always was, he thought. Setting the sandwich and milk on the nightstand, Perry filled her water glass then stood up and, grabbing a pair of pajamas, headed to the bathroom with the martini glass.

When he came out she had turned off her lamp but put his on for him. All of her milk was gone and half the sandwich. Hoping to spare them from smelling chicken all night, he took the rest into the bathroom to dispose of it.

Watching her curled up on the edge of her side of the bed why, he wondered, _were_ the normal everyday things in life such a challenge for him? Setting a chair in front of her by her bed, since he couldn't crouch anymore, he sat down and tapped her on the chin. Della's eyes popped open and she watched as he took the hand she had tucked under her chin to sleep, opened it up. Kissing her palm he dropped the two aspirin he brought from the bathroom in the center then handed her the water.

Della kept her eyes on those hands through the bottom of her glass. When she tried to lower the glass, Perry tipped the bottom back up, indicating that he wanted her to drink more. After re-filling the glass he arranged the covers around her chin then returned the chair to the wall.

Crawling into their king-sized bed he lay there watching her back for a while, even reaching out to rub it. But this wasn't going to work. Hauling himself all the way over he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his body.

"Maybe you should just let me be tonight…"

"I thought about that. I did. But…"

"But?"

"We always do better when we're together, Della Street, than we do when we're alone. Always," Perry nuzzled his head in her curls, kissing her gently.

"Then why am I always alone, Perry Mason?"

Because I am a selfish, stupid man, thought Perry. He didn't say it aloud, though; he knew that he didn't have to tonight.

_**DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDS DSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDDSDSDS**_

In the morning when Perry opened his eyes, Della was facing him. One arm was wrapped around his waist, the other over his shoulder as she slept soundly on his chest, her leg over him. After kissing her lips lightly, they curled in soft smile.

Perry turned them on their sides and Della's sleepy eyes opened just long enough for him to see the love was still there. When she drifted back to sleep she was wrapped so tightly around him that his heart rose out of his chest with joy. Rubbing her shoulder and back, he watched her sleep for a long while.

_Della Street. _

_Only_ Della Street.

Only _ever_ Della Street.

When he realized that his heart and his spirits were not the only thing on the rise, he chuckled. What the woman could still do to him, at 74! Suddenly he was possessed by the urge to wake her the way he did when they were younger. In fact, they often took turns surprising each other during slumber, one or the other waking unwittingly in the throes of passion.

Della, he smirked to himself, had a particular affinity for it, innately knowing his body and knowing when …things went bump in the night, as it were.

Letting his hand wander down between them Perry felt the strip of lace, which increased his ardor, and moved it to the side. Normally Della would take over from here. Breathing heavily at the thought of her hands, he took care of "her duties" himself.

Reaching behind her he caressed her hips, stifling a moan. Alone with her, sleeping in his arms, the dark was illuminated. Aware of everything around him, her scent, the weight of her against his chest, each place their skin met, he felt that she could not have belonged to him more.

Della's head was tipped back, her chin out, lips parted wantonly, and loose, wild curls hung half over her face. If he kissed those moist, inviting lips now he would wake her and spoil everything but his mouth literally watered for her.

Instead he caressed her through her pajama top slipping each button as unobtrusively as possible through its hole. She sighed once then was sound asleep again as he lifted the satin away from her skin; it was, he thought, like peeling petals from a flower.

Feral now, he could prolong their pleasure no longer and brought her gently but firmly into his body. Della had the sexiest voice of any woman he had ever met, and the sighs that came from her now were so deep yet so feminine that he had to stop moving. Swallowing several times he rested his head in the crook of her neck until he could go on.

Surrounded by her now, he longed for her to wake and be with him.

Their unique telepathy intact, her long, dark lashes fluttered and, half groaning, she called his name. For a few minutes he silently pulled away from his still drowsy girl, her head lolling back, then brought her against him again.

Della had a hand on his thick, powerful forearm, pushing and pulling in his rhythm. With her eyes still closed she was in an exquisite place, part dream, part reality, and it thrilled her to have it both ways.

Perry watched her face, which to him was growing more beautiful by the decade, twisted in pleasure and he knew that she was fighting to have it both ways. But he wanted her "with" him now. Pressing his lips to the outer curve of her breast, he began to caress her with his lips and tongue. Wrapping an arm around his neck, her hand spun through his hair coming to rest on the nape of his neck.

Fully awake now Della was a fury and her excitement was thrilling. Grabbing Perry's shoulders she pushed him down on his back, hovering over him as she took his lips in hers over and over.

"Breaking and entering again, Counselor?" she managed to pant between her cries.

"No; I told you that you belong to me," Perry said looking up into her luminous face now glistening.

Perry yanked the pajama top down her shoulders so she could shake the sleeves off one arm at a time. They knew how this worked after all of these years—Perry's pajama bottoms would have to stay at this point but the top, she said, had to go. Together they got it open and Della immediately brushed against him over and over loving, as always, the feel of his broad, hard chest against her soft skin.

Hiding behind a curtain of her curls, his tongue migrated from her mouth to her neck to below, finally making her scream as he went back and forth between the two, kissing, licking, stroking. Della ran her hand inside the fly of his pajama bottom making him jump. When she tucked that hand even deeper Perry wanted her where back she belonged.

With a hand protectively on her neck, the other on her behind, he flipped them back over, making her scream as the weight of him fell into her. With a hand between them and an arm around him, she pulled him back hard every time he left her. Their noises were deep and primal as he moved ferociously into her, like a man half his age.

"You're… going to hurt… tomorrow, m'darlin'," Della gasped in his ear. "And… I…don't care."

"So are you…and…neither do I…"

When they were both writhing, Perry slowed them down, instructing, "At your…leisure…my love…at your leisure…"

Della encircled his neck, staring into his eyes as her back began to arch involuntarily. Pulling a leg up behind him, she held him tight, making him extremely vocal through the entire first wave, which seemed to last forever; so long in fact neither knew how more could follow but they did.

Afterward, Della lay across Perry, a hand lingering lewdly on the inside of his upper thigh, the other on his cheek, her fingers splayed across the lips she loved so well. Sometimes she cried after they made love; tonight was one of those nights. Perry just held her, stroking her back.

"I just …don't know," she sniffed through her tears.

"What, Baby?"

"How you could do that…with anyone else? I mean, you're a man, it's different, I know but…" Della shook her head.

Perry felt the tears roll down his chest and off to the side into the already damp sheets. What the girl had put up with all of these years.

"I don't."

"I understand it may not the same, Perry, but it's still…"

Perry took her by the forearms, lifting her up and across as he reclined on his usual heap of pillows.

Della loved when he took her arms like this, whether they were going to dinner, walking in and out of court, or he was forcing her around their bed. A court reporter had once tipped her off that that was how most people had finally decided they were together; by the way Perry Mason took every single opportunity to hold her arm and the _way_ he held it.

"No, my love; I mean I _don't_. I haven't, well, with the exception of my mistakes, which are well documented by the court. If you think that I could do that with anyone else but Della Katherine Street, well, maybe I've been giving you too much credit all of these years."

"All of these decades weaving in and out of each other's romantic lives?" Della questioned skeptically.

"Della, the only one who ever thought that we were "in and out"…is you. In my eyes we have always been very much _in_. Now, I'll grant you that I'm no woman's idea of relationship material…"

Perry laid her back down on him.

"Well, I wouldn't say that…" Della gave him an alluring smile of encouragement.

"Yes you would. But I have always been…yours; not sure who else would want me."

Della just shook her head, "Always selling yourself short."

"Never make the opposition's case for them, Della. But I am all yours, all 74 years, 400 pounds, and multiple physical miscues and mishaps, you lucky girl, you. And if you ever wear that pink dress with anyone else again…or any dress like it…"

"If counsel is willing to stipulate that we do not then, have an 'open' relationship," Della said softly kissing his fingers, "Prosecution is willing to stipulate on the pink dress."

Perry sighed. He had walked right into his own lie and now he had to admit it. "Counsel concedes."

"I will say this, defense could have avoided this entire cause…"

"So stipulated."

Della spent a few minutes studying his sad eyes.

"Come here," she said turning on her side and pulling even with him.

When they were eye-to-eye she turned him toward her, wrapping him in her arms like a child and throwing her leg possessively over his hip. Perry snuggled his head into her neck.

"You give me an absolutely terrible time, Mr. Mason. You have since the day after I met you, you know that don't you?"

"I know."

"You torture me; a particularly loving woman who only wants to love the man with whom she is, in fact, in love. And you just make it as difficult as you possibly can."

"I know."

"That's all? 'I know.'"

"Yup."

Della sighed.

"Do me a favor?"

"Anything, young lady."

"I'll take another 25 years or so."

"Oh no, I could never be done in 25 years…"

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me forever…"

"Yes, I'm afraid that I am…" Della sighed, holding him tightly as he fell asleep on her. "I love you…"

"Thank God…" Perry said sleepily. "See you in my dreams…"

"I'll be waiting."

"You always are, Della Street. You always are."


	4. Chapter 4

**Della Street: The Woman Behind Perry Mason Metropolitan Magazine, Page 143**

Street has been up and down at least 25 times in the last hour as the conversation continued with Perry Mason.

"I told you…head of the firm; most of the time people don't want or need to speak to me. Thank goodness."

Street has rejoined the table with fresh coffee, smoothing her skirt as she sits down crossing her legs and leaning in toward Mason. When it is suggested that no partnership—of any kind—can be together for 42 years without an argument or two a switch is flipped.

"Or two?" they yell in unison then look at one another and double over in laughter.

"She started fighting with me the very first day she worked for me—wasn't even on the payroll, yet. Demure as she is, this is a very determined young lady."

Della Street dips her head into her shoulder and throws her eyes up.

"Even when she was a girl she was a mother hen always fussing, trying to make me eat or take time off. But when it comes to work…" Mason pauses, "Well, let's say that her opinions are as definite as mine. She has talked me into more cases than I care to list just because she feels sorry for someone."

"Which is not always helpful," Street interjects, "Perry would do anything to protect a client so I would do anything to protect a client. But I can be too sentimental. You have to remember that Perry has had capital punishment hovering over his head in both Los Angeles and Denver. Many, many times a life has literally been in his hands. He _had_ to do what he thought was best for the wrongly accused no matter what that entailed. I would forget that," she says staring seriously at him, "He never did."

In her humble, generous way, Della Street explains that there were plenty of times Mason had to remind her of that and "he shouldn't have had to." Perry Mason has stayed quiet through this but again, one senses a few stories, untold.

"There was a young girl once…"

"Della."

"Actually there was _always _a young girl…"

"Della!"

"But this one was very sad, emotionally unbalanced and her parents refused to cooperate with Perry. It meant he was going to have to take her apart on the stand. I don't' know if you've ever witnessed it but it can be brutal—_thoroughly_ enjoyable if it's a cad; not so a young girl.

"Parents fault, though, left the poor man no choice" Della tips her head sideways, " I'll never forget the look of hurt on his face when I challenged him about it. Oh not harshly but he didn't want to do it to begin with…"

"And my greatest champion had seemingly lost faith…" says Perry Mason sounding a bit…small.

Della has a fist on her hip as she turns to look at him, "Her testimony proved our client innocent."

Perry Mason's success is equal parts due to, and overshadowed by, the courtroom theatrics he routinely puts on. Many a D.A. has objected to the methods, and they have certainly brought Mason some ridicule. But it is difficult to object when the stunts are ultimately so lucrative for his client.

"I've always hated that word 'stunt,'" Della Street bristles.

"Mistake," says Mason as he sits back, thumbs in the small pockets of his vest, presumably to enjoy the show.

"Listen those 'stunts' to which everyone refers," Street says standing hand on hip, "Were brilliant and they weren't done for _amusement_ either; although they certainly could _be_ amusing. Understand," she says sitting back down, "In court it's a torrent of words rushing at you until it all runs together and the words lose efficacy. Early on Perry saw this flaw in the hearing process and struck upon a way, many ways really, to use **_examples_** to **_demonstrate_** what has actually happened. Perry **_shows_** people the truth so they can see it for themselves and **_that's_** what makes it incontrovertible!

And don't forget, I myself was saved by one of those very 'stunts.' When I was set up for the murder of Arthur Gordon, Perry figured out immediately that it was a man dressed like me who killed Arthur. But people had to **_see_**that a 35 year-old man could look enough like me and as soon as they saw it, ha, ha… he had them!"

Della Street's contralto is in full swing, her hand is circling the air, her eyes flashing like sparklers on the 4th of July. Even Mason is chuckling, hand over hers, in an effort to get her to settle down—to no avail.

"I didn't get to take part often but the few times I did was fun! I can't tell you the number of times the D.A. and police have watched dumbstruck as Perry has shown **_them _**the truth. Perry may be famous for his 'theatrics' but not for the right reason. I would say that is a thing that is underrated about him; that and his abilities as a detective. He is **_the_** best there is."

With cheeks flushed, her hands finally coming to rest like spent hummingbirds and Della Street's rant is done. But it is, as she might accuse Perry Mason, a resplendent, illuminating assessment of what Mason did and does best in court. And how is Miss Street underrated?

Perry Mason starts to answer but he is cut off by his secretary, still in the throes of fierce loyalty.

"_Not in one single way_; not by the only person who counts. _Not at all_."

"That's true," Mason clears his throat. "But that's why we've been a great team…and there were never any _serious_ rifts."

Della Street and Perry Mason look at each other in a way that makes it clear that's not exactly the truth but they allow no room at all to be questioned about it.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Nov. 29, 1962…The Watchdog is Weary**_

This was no accident, Della wearing the softest dress he had ever seen.

After all of these years she knew him so well, knew what he liked, what he loved actually. Now here she was the day following the miraculous feats of magic that kept her friend Janet from the gas chamber, and Della Street out of jail, poking the tiger with a stick.

Perry Mason was angrier than he ever thought he could be at Della Street. In his opinion she had jeopardized _everything _important to them: her safety, her career, his career, their practice and their relationship.

But she sat there in Andy's office looking like a slip of a girl, a rose-colored dress in the softest angora he had ever seen almost _hugging_ her slim figure, hem just barely gracing her knee. Perry loved Della's hair back from her face and forehead, as it was today, because it made that captivating widow's peak so prominent. This woman belonged on the pages of a magazine, or walking along the Champs-Élysées, not sitting in the LA County Jail.

Three nights ago when he picked her up here (was it really only three) she looked devastating. Did she really go out dressed like that without him; alone? It was hard to say what had made him angrier. The way she looked in that tight, short lame dress and the blonde mink stole he had given her one birthday; or the trouble in which she had gotten herself accompanied by an incredibly cavalier attitude.

When they left the police station photographers besieged them, snapping her furiously unable to get enough of her. Reporters screamed questions asking if she had been charged with murder, if Perry was going to represent his secretary, if she _was_ still his secretary and if she was really _just_ his secretary.

Every question made him angrier at her because they pointed up how vulnerable she had made them both personally and professionally. Uncharacteristically gruff with the press, when a reporter tugged at Della's arm, Perry pushed him sharply and held her close. With the flashbulbs exploding Della clung to him as he held her even closer. It made for quite a display in the morning and evening papers, until he got her into the car. It was the last time he would hold her that week.

Since her near-arrest, Perry Mason had not been able to comfort Della in any way, to do any of the things he owed her, any of the things that she would have done—had in fact done—regardless of what mistakes he made. Somehow, and he couldn't say why, this just seemed different to him.

In court awaiting the verdict he had been so angry he could only stare out the window. When she tried talking to him he snapped at her until she looked down at her lap. But he had needed to think, to strategize. Della knew human nature. If she said that Janet was innocent then she was.

So where was the damn proof, where the Hell was it? Not only did he have to find it, he had to find it before Janet's verdict which meant that he had _no time_. Had that verdict come back guilty, Della would have been charged and the damage would have been done. Everything that they had worked for, even if he could both women off on appeal, would be gone.

That is what consumed his thoughts as he stood by the window; protecting the only person he had ever loved. When Paul brought in lunch for them, he felt the stagnation, suggesting he could leave if it was "a private wake." Trying to smooth things over, without any luck, he at least delivered the tip that helped Perry put all of the pieces together and break the case. But Perry had left Della alone; she set it up that way, she could finish it the same way.

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Their practice was so insanely busy that they hadn't had much time for a personal life the last several months. They were either in the office, trying to stay awake through dinner or at their own apartments trying to catch a few short hours' worth of sleep.

Occasionally Della might suspect that Perry had a date so she would eventually go out on a few, too, for the sake of self-preservation. Sometimes it worked the other way around. When they talked about it many years later, all they could do was feel pity for, and shame about, the poor stand-ins who sat across from them at dinner over the years occasionally.

For years their relationship had been at the mercy of their schedule, Perry's fears and his inability to make a commitment. Della had her fears, too, but they were largely due to his and her reputation. Usually she would just shrug her shoulders generously and attribute his lapses to the nature of their work. But he knew that she knew better, even if it hurt her too much to say it.

As they sat in Andy's office waiting to pick Janet up to take her home, Della sat with her arms wrapped protectively around her, clearly contrite. At one point she gazed at him, smiling softly, hopefully but he couldn't even give her that and she finally turned away with a shake of her head, eyes wet.

When Andy told them Janet was ready, Perry said "we appreciate it." It was a small tidbit but maybe meant that they were still "them." It reminded her of when he had wanted to write newlyweds Danny and Elaine Harrison a check to tide them over said, "Let us help you." And he always said "our" practice.

Della knew that he considered her his partner, knew that he loved her even when he forgot or didn't have time for such sentiment. But she was 40 now, Perry 45 and the time had come to make some decisions.

For Della it was already too late to change the course of her life, even if she could. Perry Mason and their work were all she wanted and she would have to take them both on his terms.

To date she had been able to subsist like a desert plant, drawing from the situation what she needed to sustain her but if he came to her someday and told her he was engaged to some young thing she knew that it would kill her.

There was a time she would never have considered such a thing possible.

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When they took Janet home Della sat in the back seat with Paul, turned toward the window as Perry drove in the late morning sun. In her quiet, nervous way, Janet was trying her best to make things right between Della and the attorney, explaining how terrified she was, causing her to put Della in a terrible position; that she couldn't have imagined what she would have done without a friend like her.

But Perry was having none of it, saying that he didn't think either of them were very good friends to have gotten each other in more trouble, then changed the subject to less incendiary topics before taking them all to lunch.

Paul reached over at one point and patted Della's knee but she couldn't look at him. She was too busy counting palm trees in an effort to avoid crying. Della knew he was angry but the extent of it was frightening.

Their luncheon at the Beefeater made for an odd group. Janet's strange, fey husband joined them and it seemed clear they had a tough road ahead. Paul, in an effort to alleviate the tension, guzzled martinis and tried to make too many jokes. Perry studiously discussed the case with both Paul and Della, post-mortems very important to his ordered mind.

Just as carefully he avoided Della in any other way.

Knowing she wouldn't be able to eat much she had ordered a small salad. Perry staring at Della over the menu, seeing that she was thinner and pale, told the waiter to bring her the sliced beets, a baked potato and a filet mignon—the 6-ounce "princess" size. They usually laughed at this but when she looked up at him he was scowling at his menu.

Returning to the office, where she felt on much surer ground, was a relief. But Perry's words remained sparse, his answers clipped and angry. When he spoke to her she swore that she could see icicles form on his breath.

Around 8PM, after six solid hours of hard work trying to catch up, he told her to order dinner so they could finish a brief. Della had to take a moment and say something; she had to try and make this better, to let him know that he needed to ease up on her if he wanted her to work with her usual efficiency. Nervous and preoccupied, she had little concentration for the tasks.

"Perry?"

Perry wanted to ignore her but couldn't; looking up his breathe stopped. He had forgotten how beautiful she looked today.

"I've said it before but I'm not sure that you've _heard _me; not sure you've wanted to but I am so, so sorry for what happened. I was trying to help," Della trailed off, watching as he turned the pen over in his hands, "If it had been anyone else defending Janet, I'd be in jail right now. I know that."

Perry felt his heart beating faster. She was trying so hard but he was still so angry; but even he knew that his anger was disproportionate now.

"Is that it?"

"Are you….going to keep this up much longer?"

"Della, we have work to do. We're behind because I got distracted this week."

"Perry, I know but I can't think straight with you behaving like this. Haven't you punished me enough?"

"How I'm behaving is at issue? I'm angry at you and I'm angry that you've made me so angry at you. Have you looked at the papers this week at all?" Perry pushed them at her, still yelling. "Do you know what they've been saying about you; about _us_? Do you have any idea how close you came to being charged as an accessory to _murder_? What were you thinking?"

"I just told you I understood every bit of that; without you prompting me. I was just trying to help a friend."

"I just don't understand how Della Street, _Della Street, _of all people, could do something like this…"

"She begged me not to tell anyone. I tried and tried to get her to talk with you. I went to see her with the cash, told her what she was doing was foolish and begged her to see you. I think…I _know_… if you had come with me that night…" Della's voice was deep and soft.

Perry ignored the remark; it cut to close to the bone.

"You're the one person…"

Perry went to take a cigarette, slamming open the lid on the cigarette box.

"Go on…"

"You are the _only_ person in the world I truly trusted; _the only one_."

"And now you don't?" Della was incredulous.

"No," he lied. "Now I don't."

Della took a deep breath and steadied herself on the edge of his desk.

Her eyes had been stinging through the entire conversation but now the tears broke, "Well then, I need to prepare…my resignation for you. An attorney has to trust his confidential secretary."

Della made the long walk to her office hoping for words that she knew would not be forthcoming.

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"How long were you standing outside?"

Paul had entered as soon as Della walked out. Sitting on the edge of Perry's desk he pulled a cigarette from the box, and lit a match on the bottom of his shoe.

"How long are _you_ going to stay mad at the kid?"

"She's not a kid. She's a 40 year-old woman."

"Really? In all of these years, I didn't think you'd noticed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh c'mon…how long is she supposed to wait around for you?" Paul said through a stream of smoke.

"You?"

"Hey, pal, big difference. I date the kind of women… well, they know the score; I know the score. _That_, in there, is a _lady_, need I remind you; a _true_ lady who loves you. And I thought you loved her, frankly."

"That's not a discussion for the office."

"That why you stay holed up in here all of the time?"

Perry glared at his closest friend, essentially his only friend next to Della and certainly one of the few people in the world willing to risk Mason's Irish temper to tell him the truth.

"Okay, she made some mistakes this week trying to help a friend. Maybe she was even a little arrogant about it. Remind you of anyone?"

Perry just stared at Paul, eyes hooded, angry.

"And where do we think she learned all of this, Counselor?"

"Are you saying this is my fault?"

"I didn't think I had to say it. She got caught up in it; you know how she loves this stuff. And you knew she was in trouble, Perry. You knew it. You let her go to that party alone, which you shouldn't have done _anyway_. But the minute Della Katherine Street asked for 25-large, you should have been on high alert."

Perry twisted his hands in front of him.

"Alright," Paul said smashing his cigarette in the ash tray on Perry's desk. "I've said enough. But you can't kid me. I know why you're so mad at her. I just don't know why such a spectacular woman takes so much crap from a guy like you."

Paul stood up from Perry's Desk as Della walked in carrying a typed sheet of paper. Yanking it out of her hands, Paul only needed to read the first few words of her resignation before tearing up the paper and turning it into a ball, making Della gasp.

Kissing her on the forehead he turned her toward the door and pushed her back.

"Run back to work now, Beautiful."

Paul turned to Perry, shook his head and pelted him with the paper ball. When he flinched and ducked Paul just laughed at him.

"By the way tough guy, no charge on this one, not for our girl."

"Thanks. I'll tell her…"

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How much?

How much of this _was_ his fault?

They had "taught" her this life and she loved it. And he loved that she loved it. And she loved him, so much so that she stayed by his side regardless of the mixed messages he sent, the weeks, sometimes months of neglect.

For the first time since they had met Della Street had seemingly put someone ahead of him _and_ had gone rogue in a dangerous situation. How alone must he have made her feel that she would have done thought that this behavior was acceptable?

What would he do without her, not just as his secretary, but her?

Perry broke out into a cold sweat as he lit another cigarette.

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Their coats over his arm, Perry stood in the doorway, watching her. Women like Della, if indeed there were any others and he doubted it, didn't stay single and dedicate themselves to work. She had clearly made a decision. Standing there he woke up from the middle-aged fog that had been afflicting him recently, to remember what an amazing woman he loved.

Perry stretched his hand across her desk.

"Come on," he said softly, giving her a little wink.

Della looked at him for a moment then reached for him, letting him lead her from behind her desk. The wink was enough to send out the tears again.

"Let's go for a drive…" Perry held up her coat.

When Della turned her back to him he slipped the white wool coat over her shoulders. Running his hands up and down her arms he pulled her back against him then wrapped his arms tightly around her waist.

How many times had he helped her into her coat, slipping in a moment of intimacy? How many times had they walked out that door together, or walked back in, clinging to each other by the arm? How many times had they cuddled and kissed, danced and held one, another only to have him back away weeks or months later?

"We'll come back and close up later. _Maybe_," he whispered in her ear, making her swoon a bit.

Keeping her hand in his, they walked to the elevator, waiting in silence. Once inside he pulled her into his arm, kissing her temple. Della was a big girl—40 years old, prone to occasional sarcasm, savvy and able to take care of herself, she had had to be—but she didn't know what to do now. After all, her intuition had proved dismal this week. Surely she couldn't be trusted now to know when he might jam on the brakes again, throwing her face-first into the windshield.

For a while, she thought perhaps they had accidentally slipped into another kind of relationship, that of a brother and sister; certainly there had been undertones through the years. But there was too much passion and, finally, that was perhaps their great challenge, their often overwhelming passion.

Passion that made them need only one another, and made the world stop turning on its axis when they kissed; passion that forced him to hide his lap when nothing more than his smoldering eyes caressed her; that made her as damp as an early spring morning almost any time he touched her.

Passion that scared the Hell out of them; Perry because if it was ever denied he feared it might be the end of him, Della because she knew that, no matter how little he offered, she would never leave his side.

The simple fact was, she needed him, loved him and when he offered his great, long arm and broad shoulder, Della leaned into him with a weary sigh, one hand on his chest. This had been a long, terrible week that saw her make too many mistakes, misjudging people and situations in a way she never had before; even Perry, to some extent.

"Shhh…," he said wrapping his other arm around her. "I _do _know and I _am _sorry. Are _you_ sorry?"

Della nodded her head against him.

"You realize what could have happened?"

Drawing in a deep breath she nodded again, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief he gave her. When the elevator opened to the garage, Della tried to compose herself so Charlie wouldn't be the wiser.

"Boy," he yelled across the garage as soon as he saw them, "That was a close one, Miss Street! Hey you almost lost your girl, Mr. M!"

"Nah, I wouldn't have let anything happen to her, Charlie. She's taken such good care of me all of these years how could I?" Perry looked at Della, who he saw was registering surprise that he had noticed.

"If it went badly we would have just opened a branch in San Quentin," Perry smiled widely, holding the door for her and then jumping in after her.

"Yeah, well, why don't you cut all of this nonsense and marry the girl," said Charlie wiping his hands on a rag. "This is no kinda' life for two grown people. Why when the wife and I…"

"Thanks, Charlie," Perry Mason cut him off with a genial grin, despite the fact that he wanted to belt him one.

When he looked over Della was smiling for the first time since Janet's arrest.

Once they were out on the road, Perry turned on the heater for Della and then the radio. Then he lifted up his arm and looked over at her. Shyly she slid over, sitting straight-backed next to him. Perry chuckled very quietly and at the next light pulled her forcibly down into him.

Kay Starr came on, not a favorite of theirs, but she sang a song they both loved. Snuggling into him, Della started to relax a little, which was almost always a mistake with Perry but she did it anyway listening to the plaintive music.

Little painted lady, with your lovely clothes

Where are you bound for, may I ask?

What your diamonds cost you, everybody knows.

All the world can see behind your mask.

All dolled up in glad rags,

Tomorrow may turn to sad rags,

They call you Glad Rag Doll…

Admired,

Desired

By fellows who soon grow tired,

Poor little Glad Rag Doll

You're just a pretty toy boys like to play with,

You're not the kind they choose to grow old and grey with.

Don't make this the end Dear

It's never too late to mend Dear

Poor little Glad Rag Doll

Della sighed against him, her lovely hands crossed in her lap. Perry leaned in and kissed her curls a few times while he drove. Suddenly he couldn't let go of her.

"Give me a hand," he whispered in her ear.

Della reached up her right hand, entwining their fingers.

"Huh; just as I suspected young lady," Perry said summing up for the jury. "Freezing. Where are your gloves?"

Della took her gloves from her lap and pulled them on, then turned her body toward him to really snuggle in.

"Della," he said seriously. "You've got a lot more to forgive than I do."

Della, who still hadn't said a word, just shrugged her shoulders.

"How's it been all of these years? Waiting for me to finally grow up?"

Della's laugh surprised even her; for that's exactly what it was and had been for 13 years now. Della had been patiently waiting for this boy she loved so dearly to grow into the man of whom she often saw glimpses and whom she absolutely worshipped.

"Like it always is, I suppose. Growing pains don't just affect you but everyone around you. I guess I just thought I'd wait it out; no choice really. But it's been a long wait, my friend and a funny thing happens, when you're a single woman and you reach a certain age…"

Perry pulled over in a small outcropping and turned off the car, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he prompted her.

"You're not 'a certain age,'" Perry stroked her hair.

"Oh, but I am, I am and you know that I am so don't pretend," Della's voice has dropped and she was serious.

"And you've never really been single…"

"Tell _that_ to my tax return."

Perry couldn't stop grinning.

"Well, I'll be right there next to you ageing, as well. And in case you hadn't noticed I _am_ getting old!"

"Will you, Perry?" Della looked at her lap.

Perry knew it was time; time to let go of his fears and his adherence to protocol; his insular mania for work; and to pry her fears and mania for work from her, although over the last couple of years hers seemed to have fallen away more than his.

Shifting down into the seat, he pulled her around so that she was lying across his lap, both of his arms wrapped around her, holding her close. When Della caught his eyes with, she could see that something was different.

"Are you…seeing anyone?" Perry asked sheepishly. "That fellow at…"

Della just shook her head, "You are, though…seeing someone."

"No, baby," Della looked up sharply at the pet name. "I've never 'seen' anyone, really…place holders."

"Place holders?"

"For you, Della Street. You may know what it's like to love someone who works far too much, who is terrified of commitment, who takes you for granted, who's terrified of the only good thing that's ever happened to him but _I know_ that you know better than to think you're not loved."

"It's true. But that's what's been so damn frustrating, Perry. I do know that you love me. In fact," Della paused before taking the chance of her life, "I don't think you've ever loved anyone but me."

Perry held her a foot from him, his huge hands wrapped around her upper arms, the long elegant fingers curled around her soft flesh. With her chin up, she stared defiantly into his eyes until Perry finally pulled her into him, resting her forehead against his. This woman in his arms was his whole world; they were each other's whole world. They were lovers, family, best friends and colleagues.

"I should have gone to that party with you. I knew that you were in trouble. If it had been anyone else…"

"If it had been a client, Perry, _any_ client…"

"Della, I've kicked myself a hundred times. You go everywhere with me…"

"What are you so scared of my only love?"

Perry looked at her. She had never called him anything like that…ever. With those words, that warm, tender look in her eyes and the way her slender hands now rested on either side of his neck, he was drawn into her.

"I don't know."

Della sighed.

"Paul's right—what you ever saw in me I don't know but I am a lucky man."

Della stroked his hair, kissing his brow, making him fall into her again.

"I guess I can't give him too hard a time about stealing my coffee anymore," Della laughed softly but Perry was somewhere else, unable to do anything at that moment but hide in her.

Della Street had waited for more than a decade for her boy to grow up and in one night, he had.

"Where do we go from here?" he whispered to her.

Della was unused to Perry asking the questions; it was rare. He usually did the answering.

"Well, there's really only one place two grown people can go from here, Perry."

Perry sitting up now watched her lips pursing then curl into a smile, his smile, the only person to whom she gave that particular look. Adoration rushed him, and he tapped her chin twice with a finger.

"And where is that Miss Street?"

"_Home_, Mr. Mason."

"Where _is_ home, Della?" Perry asked suddenly as weary as he had ever been.

Della saw in his eyes, and heard in his beautiful voice, exactly what was happening to him. Perry now understood that they were rootless, homeless, vagrants created by a life devoted to work, to other people's disasters. Della had figured this out years ago and she knew how heart wrenching, how cruel the revelation was.

"Wherever we are _together_, Mr. Mason."

"The office?" he pretended to ask.

Della biffed him on the shoulder, giggling, "Why do you think we're always there?"

"There's been some speculation about that from other sources."

"Mr. Drake."

"Indeed. He seems to think we need our skulls knocked in…" Perry continued smirking but Della looked at him skeptically.

"Mmmmm…."

"He seems to think that _I _need _my _skull knocked in."

With that Della smirked herself, raising her eyebrows in agreement.

"You've been wearing lots of extremely soft, fuzzy things lately…" Perry ran his hand under her coat and up from her hip to just under her arm, his thumb following the underwire of her bra, making her shiver.

Della's eyes were stormy and dark now. She needed him to know how much he was wanted, her poor scared, lost boy.

"I do that when you need to be reminded that I'm a woman," Della said as she draped her arms around his neck.

"I never forget that, Della."

Della turned her head sideways.

"I never _truly_ forget that…"

Della brushed her lips over his once, twice then again and again. Nothing fell as gently as those kisses, thought Perry; not Cherry blossoms after a storm, not powder on a woman's skin. Next to her kisses they were violent assaults.

Della's tongue flitted in and out so quickly Perry couldn't catch her. But he was caught now, in the truth of _them_, in his unquiet feelings, in the fear of losing her and her love; caught in the way he had fought all along, and caught in knowing now that he was caught from the first moment he ever started to fight.

In his third year of law school he endured an incredible betrayal; the kind of betrayal that inspires a vow never to be vulnerable to _anyone_ again. Even Della, whom he trusted more than he trusted himself and whom he loved more than he thought it possible to love another human being, hadn't been able to make him break that vow but she was coming close to succeeding and over the next few years, would.

Della felt him next to her thigh and, in between kisses, murmured that he should let go. Whether it was the intensity of the week, the duress of their fracture, the excitement of their new understanding or those soft kisses, Perry Mason found himself, without so much as a touch, moaning and writhing under her perfect mouth. Straining against her, against the seat, the door, the floor, et go as she instructed a scream escaping from deep in his chest.

Clasping her to him, he buried his head in her neck until his breathing calmed.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ put anyone ahead of us again," Perry said so quietly, so evenly that it terrified her.

"I didn't, Perry; not intentionally. I was being you, proving I didn't need you because…you haven't been there for me in so long. I wasn't even sure…there was an 'us' anymore."

"Do I ever try to be 'me' without _you_?" he asked sternly but still panting.

Della shook her head, not meeting his gaze, feeling like a little girl being reprimanded for misbehaving but knowing he was absolutely right.

"Do you know why, Della?" he queried, his agitation renewed.

Della shook her head again.

"_Because I can't_."

Della finally lifted her eyes, pursing her lips.

"I can't. And you don't want to be me, believe me, you're a much greater success as you."

"I shouldn't have borrowed the money. I felt so bad when I took it. You just wrote the check as if it were nothing."

"Yes, well that was one of _my_ mistakes, Della. Not giving you the money, Della—I'd have given you a 100-thousand dollars. But I should have watched you like a hawk afterwards. I knew that money wasn't for you and I knew you were going to get yourself into trouble."

"I did think the car thing was pretty good."

"No."

"No?"

"No, Della. You can't let someone else call the shots. When we do something like that it's our plan not the client or anyone else's. That's how you got into trouble. This was her plan so you didn't know all of the details...minor ones like the fact that she thought that she had just killed her blackmailer."

"Well, my plan was to come to you. I tried to get her to do it at least three times."

"That's good to know."

"I felt bad Perry. She has no one but that eerie husband of hers. He is a strange one. And you should have been at that party! What a collection of odd balls!"

"Yes," Perry said with consternation and no small amount of disdain, "I met most of them in court, thank you very much."

"Well, it's part of why I didn't push the party on you. I knew that you wouldn't like any of them. Of course I didn't know that they were all complicit in a Chinese slavery ring…" Della said putting her hand to her chest, still overcome by the thought.

Chuckling, Perry rubbed her arms and said, "Della, why would you? We didn't know the Kingpin ran our favorite Chinese restaurant?"

Always "we," thought Della as she took off a glove and reached up to his cheek to wipe off some lipstick covering one of his dimples.

"Hey!"

"What," Della laughed, wide eyed and teasing.

"Don't take off, _put more on_…"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I see! You haven't had enough ….mmm…_kissing_ for one night?"

"I've fallen behind the last few months…" his mouth was in a straight line now, eyes enormous, mugging for her like he used to in the old days. It made her laugh and cry simultaneously.

"Right here," Perry pointed to his other dimple and Della obliged.

"And…right here…" Perry pointed to the tip of his nose, making her laugh and roll her eyes.

"Aaaaaand…?" Perry paused, eyes cast up and sideways as if he were considering his next move, "Right…"

Della cut him off.

"Here," she said kissing him once again his on his perfect mouth.

"I love your mouth, always have. You know I could do that all night." Brushing a lock of hair from his forehead when she was done, she said, "I am sorry, Perry. As your secretary, as your…girlfriend…"

"And as my partner?" Perry pretended to be hurt.

Della nodded and clicked her teeth like the dame she could be, "As everything I might be to you. Thanks for being such a genius, by the way."

Della rolled her eyes again.

"It was pretty good, wasn't it," he had his crooked little boy smile now, making her purse her lips again. "To tell you the truth, Della, I haven't had a moment to enjoy it. I was too damn scared. I don't think, no I know for a fact, that I have never been that scared."

"I _am_ sorry, Chief."

Perry pulled her chin towards him and felt the silky, coral lips beneath his. For Perry Mason, although he would admit this to _no one_, not even Della, kissing seemed like the most intimate act in the world and with anyone but Della he was reticent. But Della Street, so much like him in nearly every way, was his opposite when it came to this. Avid and insatiable, she could kiss for hours and when she was done always left a bit of her soul behind.

Tonight, though, as he concentrated on her bottom lip his fervor matched hers, even surpassed it. Della was dazed and thrilled by the working over he gave her back finally.

"I want to go to one of those places where we keep our clothes and books and other items of a _personal_ nature," Della whispered.

"What do they call that…an apartment?"

"That's it…!"

"Which one?"

"Whichever one of us has the least nosey landlady, I suppose," she giggled softly.

"Well, they're both going to be getting an eyeful from now on so, ladies choice."

"Do you want me to be pretty in the morning?"

"Miss Street, I don't see how you could ever be anything else."

"Then my place tonight, if you don't mind, and in future we'll have some plans in place…."

"A few things at my place, a few things at yours?"

"Precisely."

"Not…one place…?"

Della looked down, biting her lip. "Perry, nice people don't just…live together without being married. They stay over a lot," she laughed at the accepted hypocrisy of it. "But not live together."

"Now _I_ apologize; that was rude of me, Della. Guess all of a sudden I'm just not sure how I'm ever going to leave you again."

The dress was even more of a success than she anticipated. Della wasn't sure Perry even noticed but he had been doing laps around her prone body, beneath her coat, non-stop. Running his hands along her waist, thumbs brushing the outer curves of her breast at each pass, he drew her deeper into his lap to caress her thighs… soon her belly… then graduating, without any shame, to her breasts.

In general he was making himself a nuisance.

"Perry," Della was panting now herself, "Home."

"Shall we head…home then?" he laughed at her discomfort.

"Yes," she managed to get out. "Before all that I'm wearing is a small pile of lint."

Perry let out a belly laugh; that crooked hitch on the right side of his smile bringing tears to her eyes. Flooring it, he opted to risk charming a traffic cop in order to get to her apartment as soon as possible.

"Perry!" Della laughed against him, "Let me sit back up before you take off!"

"You know the trouble with you, Miss Street?"

"No… but I'm sure you're going to tell me, Counselor."

"No commitment," Della watched the crooked, little smile again.

"You know what I used to tell my baby brother when he would come in my room and torture me?"

"I know a lot of things, Della Street but not that."

It was Della's turn to laugh, "You're cruisin' for a bruisin', mister…"

Perry smiled, holding her across his lap not letting her up.

"As long as you're the one who gives it to me!"

"Something has happened to you, Counselor," Della shook her head and gave him a mock look of fear.

"Well…I keep picturing you in jail…"

"Perry Mason!"

"And Della Street!"

Speeding back down Mulholland Drive, the City of Angels snapping and prickling below them, the stars swaggering above, vivacious, show offs, astral fan dancers, Perry hit the gas, sending them off into the night and, with dawn, a new day.


End file.
